In Thrall

your work is really the best thing i`ve read so far on this site But still i`d advise you to ride it a few more times i`m sure that it could get it to be better than it is now

Danteel had not expected Jonahn to be waiting for him. Nor had he expected the man to have an open bottle of brandy before him with two untouched tumblers. But most of all, he had not expected him to smile at his entrance. The sensation that smile gave him was eerie, as if something alien was trying to worm its way through his eyes into his soul.

He blinked, and the sensation vanished. “Won’t you have a seat?” Jonahn said, gesturing expansively to the chair across from him. His voice had that same false joviality as when Danteel had first heard it. He hesitated.

“Is this an invitation,” he said, his voice perfectly expressionless, “or a command?”

“I would just like to ask you some questions,” replied Jonahn without answering.

Danteel sat, but didn’t touch the brandy. He knew that Moncreif had not sent him to merely “check up” on the Governor, and even without his master’s subtle commands he would have been curious. He intended to say, “What is it you want?” Instead, the words that came from his in a hiss were, “What did you do to Mattira?”

The barest flicker passed across the man’s face. Anyone less skilled in observing human expressions would have missed it. “You heard the arrangements,” said Jonahn, and while he had not dropped his façade, there was definitely more strain on it now than there had been before. Danteel glanced about the room. Alita was nowhere nearby, and through the open door to the office, the Nagai could see that she was not in the quarters at all. No one to protect Jonahn now. No one to see.

He clenched his teeth, regained control. “I will ask you once more,” he said softly, “and you can lose your little act: what did you do to Mattira?”

He could see the man hesitate for only a moment, then decide. “It wasn’t rape,” he said in his natural, more husky voice.

“What would you call it then?” snarled Danteel.

“I put her to sleep the moment she arrived: no memories, no scars, no rape.”

“No choice.”

Jonahn rolled his eyes as if bored. “It is not she I wish to talk to you about.”

Something chimed in the back of Danteel’s brain. Several times he had provoked Jonahn, had given him every reason to throw him our or, at the very least, lose his temper. Yet the human hadn’t risen to the Nagai’s barbs. Which meant Danteel had something Jonahn wanted, something he could only receive if Danteel wanted him to receive it.

He leaned back in his chair, unclenched his fists, and made his face go smooth and impassive. “What is it you want then?”

Jonahn smiled, apparently glad to finally be getting to the point. “How much do you know of human history?” he asked.

“As much as any nonhuman, I suppose,” Danteel lied coolly. “I know that you blew up your own homeworld with bickering between nations. What an embarrassment that must have been, trying to decide between the –what was it then?—the three or four other world you held which would be your ‘new homeworld.’ Trying to make the governments who had destroyed the old decide on the new.”

Jonahn’s face went nova red. “And yet we rose to a position of power high enough that we can now take even the Nagai for slaves.”

That particular dart struck home, but Danteel gave no sign of it. “Took you long enough to get there,” he said, very nearly drawling. “Two civil wars after you settled Locus Nova, not to mention the countless coups and political upsets that never quite got called wars. So sloppy.”

“As sloppy as a race who spent so much time fighting their ancient enemy that they never bothered to learn enough about the new one,” said Jonahn off-handedly.

“My people were building skyscrapers before your race discovered ladders,” said Danteel, with as much scorn as he could use while still sounding calm and collected. It would not do to explode at the man, not now.

He was pleased to see Jonahn struggle to control his rage, pleased to watch the fat man’s round face grow even redder, pleased to see the meaty fists tremble as they gripped the arms of his chair. This was power, and he had not tasted it in far too long. “Are you saying that you don’t want to hear my proposal, then?” he asked, his voice surprisingly cool.

Danteel gestured, a slow, imperious sweep of the hand his father had often used when half-listening to the babbling of underlings. “As you will.”

“When you attacked me,” said Jonahn slowly, as if weighing every word before he spoke it, “my apprentice attempted to defend me. Do you remember what she did?”

He thought back. “She saw me coming at you with the broken bottle,” he said. “She threw herself on you to get out of the way. Then she stood between us, blocking my way to you.”

Jonahn leaned forward, almost eagerly. “Yes, and then?”

“And then…” Danteel blinked, remembering the words Alita herself had used to describe her actions. “She…’sang’ at me.”

The governor released a long, pleased breath. “And what did her Song do to you?”

Danteel’s nostrils flared. He was tired of being the only one answering questions. “Why is this so important to you?”

The human rolled his eyes. “Time enough for that later.”

“The time for that is now,” declared Danteel. “Or the time for my answers is never.”

Jonahn’s face pulled into a scowl. “You forget,” he said, “which of us holds the power.”

“Depends on how you define power,” replied the Nagai, almost nonchalantly. “If you mean the power to cause pain or death then yes, you have it. If you mean the power to be the only sentient in the galaxy able to answer these questions, then it is you who has forgotten.”

For a long moment Jonahn was silent, not moving so much as a centimeter. That deliberate, controlled inaction told Danteel, even more than Jonahn’s walk or voice had, that this man had seen battle and been trained for it. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder how old the human was—certainly he did not seem much above middle age, but it was hard to imagine a man going from trained warrior to governor of Shinjara in a lifetime less than forty or fifty years. Finally, Jonahn spoke. “What will it take for you to answer my questions?”

“Tell me what you have done to Mattira,” he replied without hesitation. “If you planned to knock her out as soon as she arrived than why call for her at all?”

“I wanted to teach Moncreif a lesson,” said Jonahn. “He has always had a soft spot for alien women, and he has yet to learn how dangerous that is.”

Danteel leaned forward, his eyes intent on the governor. “What did you do to her?” he demanded, each word emerging like the measured toll of a bell.

Jonahn took a deep breath, pursed his lips. “I used what knowledge and power I have,” he said in a bored tone, “to make her pregnant with my child.”

Time seemed to congeal around them. Danteel could feel every pulse of blood in his veins, could hear every movement of breath in his lungs. The world of the Avarice seemed as far away as his home planet, all that remained in this frozen place were his breath, his heartbeat, and his horror. Then everything returned in a terrified, terrifying rush and he shot to his feet, screaming, “What have you done!”

Jonahn erupted from his chair at the same time, yelling over Danteel’s cry, “I have saved her from him!”

The Nagai lunged at the man, feeling the silver blaze in his eyes. But Jonahn saw the attack coming this time: he grabbed Danteel’s arm and pivoted, spinning and dragging his assailant with him. Danteel lost his balance and began to fall—until Jonahn slammed him into the bulkhead. For the barest second he blacked out, but when he came to he realized how fast the human could move. Jonahn had Danteel pinned to the floor, one knee pressed to the center of his chest, the other managing to trap both his legs, the man’s hands holding his writs in an unbreakable grip. Danteel’s back, pressed to the thinly-carpeted floor by the full weight of this not daintily-built man, seemed to scream pain throughout the Nagai’s entire body. “Get off,” he commanded, his voice low.

“You have to listen to me,” said Jonahn, his face serious. “Swear not to attack me again and I’ll let you up.”

“I will rip your throat out,” said Danteel in Nagian. “I will tear your teeth from your mouth one by one. I will--.”

“In Basic,” growled Jonahn, oblivious to the threats. “Swear.”

“You are safe from me for the remainder of our discussion,” the Nagai said coolly, ignoring the agony in his back. “But after our conversation is over I suggest you show me out as quickly as possible.”

“Fine,” Jonahn snarled, and was off the Nagai in an instant.

Danteel levered himself up slowly, gingerly pulling his now-sweaty tunic away from his tender scars. “Answer my questions,” he said, “and I will answer yours.”

“It is not my habit to bargain with slaves,” Jonahn said, but the words had no bite and Danteel ignored them.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “what you have done to Mattira and why.”

“What has Moncreif told you about Weavers?”

“That you are would-be wizards with little power, surviving on the legends of your predecessors.”

Jonahn snorted. “He would, wouldn’t he? Well, for once he’s not far off. Most modern Weavers are exactly what you describe: poor, pathetic shadows of what our profession once was.”

“But not you,” said Danteel, more than a little sarcasm in his voice.

The human waved his hand in a little gesture that might or might not have been self-deprecating. “I fancy that I have some little skill with Weaving by written word, and indeed the government has often found my talents…useful. As to last night, sleeping drought in the drink I gave her was all required to knock her out. And then I simply used the power of my words to make her eggs ready to receive human fertilization, and her womb ready to carry a half-human child to term.”

“Why?” snarled Danteel.

“What better way to get at Moncreif?" Jonahn was grinning widely. "You must know how possessive he is of his slaves, how jealous. Can you imagine how much he hates knowing that a woman who has never had any man but him has now shared the bed of his enemy? How much more will it torture his mind to know she is carrying another man’s baby?”

“He’d rather kill her than live with that knowledge,” said Danteel flatly, wondering just how much he could shorten the definition of ‘conversation’ while still keeping his promise. “Was that a part of your perfect plan?”

“While what you say is true,” said Jonahn, waving a hand as if Mattira’s life was of no consequence, “I believe I can convince him to spare her and his own shame by selling her to me. Alita seems to have made friends with her anyway, and I can always sell her if she or her child prove too much trouble.”

“Sheczkall,” hissed Danteel. “The inhumanity of the human race never ceases to astound me.”

Jonahn rolled his eyes. “I have answered all your questions, slave, now you have promised to answer mine.”

Danteel crossed his arms. “Ask.”

“What did you feel when Alita Sang at you?”

The Nagai considered for a moment. “I felt as if the song itself were a physical force, like a drug coursing through my system, trying to calm me.”

“But it didn’t work,” mumbled Jonahn, as much to himself as Danteel. “Why didn’t it work? How did you resist it?”

He shrugged. “I shook it off as I would pain, ignoring it as something unnecessary to feel at the moment.”

“But how?” demanded Jonahn, nearly yelling. “How did you shake it off so easily? Alita is one of the most talented girls I’ve trained.”

“I have told you all I know,” said Danteel icily. “And our conversation is now over. I suggest you dismiss me immediately.”

“Yes, get out,” said Jonahn, suddenly vicious. “This has been time wasted.”

Slowly, reminding himself of his promise with every step, Danteel left Jonahn’s quarters.

Oh my oh lawks oh MAN!! Wasn't expecting that bombshell, very nicely dropped on my unsuspecting toes.

Gyr wrote:Nor had he expected the man to have an open bottle of brandy before him with two untouched tumblers.

Add in he between had and expected.

Gyr wrote:Alita was no where nearby...

No where = nowhere; one word.


I think that was all.

Bless you, love.

Hullo Gyr. ^_^


...I've fallen behind in reading Thrall - rather behind in critiques. to be tangential. But I wanted to hit this last installment, if possible.

Brief thoughts, da?


DIALOGUE --

You keep an inescapably involving tension in the exchange, if not flawlessly, very near it. I would keep an eye on adverbs, for where they add and where they detract. Though only once did a polysyllabic nonchalantly feel like a skip in the flow. On a similar point, to tighten things somewhat, you might try having one or the other character interrupt whoever is speaking, every now and then.

In this case, both J. and Danteel seem uncommonly less likely to be breaking in and summarising each other. Still, when it comes to Danteel's snapping, it would fit neatly.


PLOT FACETS, PERHAPS? (related to character)--

So, mad fellow of a weaver rapes an alien girl...to get her pregnant. In itself, easily slid into a plot.

But it felt awkwardly phrased in Johan's words - as if he weren't sure of what he'd done until he started saying it. Intentional? If so, it's an interesting facet of his character. If not, you might want to consider it at more length so that you have a clear sense of what it is and how to put it.

Yes, rather a bizarre thing in itself. But I picture J. being more than cool about explaining such things; in fact, he seems the sort to put bloody tragedy into sterile euphemism.

That brief knot aside, the characters are deftly portrayed in their speech. Honestly, 'tis a good read for their interaction. ^_^










IMP


[ courtesy of the CCF ]

A million thanks, my Imp! *gives whole box of cookies* I've always been a little unsatisfied with this scene and I think you targeted the problem that I couldn't see. I shall edit this as soon as I can snatch time, and post the next bit (with which I am much more pleased) shortly.

Edit: I've integrated both your suggestions, and Imp you were so right about making J. flip about his actions to Mattira--perfect. I also agree with you on the idea of interuptions, but I'm having trouble finding the right spot, any ideas?

Danteel never told me precisely what happened to Mattira after this, but by way of ship’s gossip and some riffling through old records, I eventually learned that she had indeed been sold to Jonahn, just before the governor left the Avarice to return to Locus Nova. After she had her child, Jonahn gave both mother and baby (a little girl) to Alita as a short of graduation present, celebrating the young Song Weaver’s end to her studies with him.

From all accounts, Alita used the money she earned from the use of her talents to buy a very nice house for herself, Mattira, and the child. I do not know whether Danteel ever got back in touch with Mattira, but I do know that after the incident with Jonahn, Moncreif never kept any single slave girl on the Avarice for more than a year or so.

Until Lataar.

The stench of scorched flesh and the brooding smell of burnt thatch filled Danteel’s nostrils. He looked around the razed village, the smoke from the ruins clogging the clear blue sky. The nozzle of a blaster rifle struck his always-sore back and he took a jerking step forward. Snarling, he shot an icy glance back at the stern-faced commander who wielded the offending weapon. The other narrowed his eyes in silent warning. Danteel, ignoring him, returned his attention to the smoldering town.

Armored soldiers stalked among the half-blasted homes and hundreds of sprawled winged bodies. So much death, and for what? Danteel fought against his urge to throw up. He had seen his share of battlefields, had worn his share of blood, but this was a massacre, preformed by a man who would not even deign to leave orbit and look upon the faces of those he had been ordered to slay. The Nagai turned his face to the smog-smeared sky and glanced at the distant gray glimmer of the Avarice. The commander stepped forward, pressing the business end of his rifle gently against Danteel’s back. He took another few unwilling steps forward.

They progressed in this fashion for several meters, soldiers and scouts occasionally coming up to the commander to give reports. Danteel ignored them. He was not bound. But for the rifle at his back, he could have run. The carnage around him seemed to laugh at this thought, and he heard his master’s voice in his hear: Run to where? Moncreif had not done all this to teach Danteel a lesson in submission; that was simply an added bonus. As if the hundreds of whip-scars covering his back were not lesson enough.

And then a wail split the gloomy, death-like silence. By the stars, thought Danteel, there’s a survivor.

The rifle came up to rest its muzzle between the Nagai’s shoulder blades and he heard the commander say, “Time to earn your pay, scum.”

If I were being paid for this, I could have bought my freedom several times over by now, thought Danteel bitterly.

They walked in a kind of wedge, Danteel at point with two blank-faced soldiers on either side of him and the officer tucked safely in the middle. Soon they came to a collapsed wall that had apparently trapped the source of the cry. Danteel glanced a question back and got an impatiently raised eyebrow in response. Crouching, he gripped the edge of the wall and lifted. It groaned and shuddered as he hefted it up and to one side.

Beneath it lay a young Sk’iri girl, probably not much older than fifteen, clutching at the corpse of a woman who had apparently been her mother. Her pitiful wails and sobs rang out, wrenching a compassion that Danteel thought he had long ago lost. She didn’t seem to notice that the wall trapping her was gone and she totally ignored the six beings looking down on her.

The stormtroopers shifted, looking from the girl to the commander and back again as if unsure what to do. Before anyone could move, Danteel stepped forward and knelt next to the girl. Without being totally aware of what he was doing, he put an arm around her and drew her protectively towards him. She started, flailing out with her huge white wings and hitting him with them several times. But he did not let go. Eventually she went limp in his arms and he lifted her thin, wiry form from the soot-and-blood ground, her wings hanging down like dirty white rags from her shoulder blades.

Sobs, silent and powerful, still wracked her body, and Danteel drew her to himself, allowing her to cry rivers on his narrow chest. A hard, thick hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and the Nagai turned to face the scowling commander. He felt the girl stiffen and try to hide herself by pressing back against him.

“And what,” the commander growled, “do you think you’re doing.”

Anger swelled in Danteel, but he suppressed it through habit. “What does it look like?” he said, glacially calm. “I’m rescuing.”

The commander snorted, an order at the tip of his tongue. But then, for the first time, he really looked at the girl. His eyes narrowed and his crag of a mouth split in a terrible grin. Danteel took and instinctive step back, and felt the girl wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for all she was worth.

“Give her here, Nagai,” said the commander softly, holding out his arms. He had never addressed Danteel with anything more than absolute scorn, and the use of even his race’s name set off warning klaxons in Danteel’s head.

“Why?” he demanded, taking another step back.

“I’m not going to hurt her, slave, just hand her over.” The commander had the slow, gentle attitude of a child cornering an escaped pet.

“Why?” demanded the Nagai again.

The commander stopped his steady progress forward and scowled. “Fine,” he grated, all gentleness gone. “You carry her, then.” With that he turned to go back the way they had gone. The soldiers formed up around them, surrounding Danteel. He had no choice but to march forward with them, still carrying the girl.

“What do you want with her?” asked Danteel. A small, horrible idea was taking root in his mind, an idea he all but refused to believe.

The commander glanced back at him, sneering. “Let’s just say you won’t be the only one earning your pay today.”

Danteel stopped. The stormtroopers surrounding him also came to a reluctant halt. “No,” he said.

The officer raised his rifle threateningly. “What did you say?”

“No. There’s no way. Forget it. I-will-not-let-you.” He annunciated the last few words carefully, in case the commander was still having trouble understanding him.

The officer looked gamely around the circle of armed soldiers. “It doesn’t seem you have much of a choice, slave.”

The girl’s arms tightened around Danteel’s neck and he doubled his grip on her. Her wings stirred, one coming up to cover her body and the other wrapping around his back to envelope his shoulders. He felt as if he was enfolded in soft white shields of light. “Very well,” said Danteel. “Be my guest. Shoot us. I’m sure Moncreif would be delighted to have our corpses dumped on his ship rather than live, useful slaves.”

“He gave me permission to kill you if you made trouble.”

Danteel shrugged. “Then go ahead.”

A wind blew into the silence, kicking up ash and soot and flinging it everywhere. The Nagai’s white skin was smeared gray and black, and the soldiers’ once pristine armor no longer gleamed.

Then the commander set his weapon to stun and shot both of them with one pull of the trigger.

* * *

Danteel awoke in the med bay with a pounding headache and the taste of, of all things, salt in his mouth. He spat. Stun blasts had never been kind to him, and he wondered if they were simply bad for his species or for him personally. He looked at the next bed over and saw the Sk’iri girl lying there, her wings limp and her eyes closed, with the fat ship’s doctor standing over her. Danteel let out a curse as he moved to get off the bed he was lying on. Pain shot up his right arm and spread to engulf his body. He gasped and lay down again, looking for the first time at his wrists. Stun cuffs. The doctor’d used bloody stun cuffs. He knew it was the doctor who’d fastened him to the bed with them; Moncreif was a lot more…traditional.

And now here the doctor came, his generous stomach wobbling. “Lie still, please,” he said primly, as if the “please” was a stretch for him. “You don’t respond well to stun blasts.”

“No kidding,” Danteel snarled. He moved his left wrist gingerly; the cuff was tied to the bed by several strands of power cord. “You couldn’t simply strap me down?”

The doctor’s little pig eyes flashed. He leaned in over the Nagai and Danteel was smothered in the smell of sweat and rubber gloves. “You will not address me so, slave.”

“Not your slave,” hissed Danteel. “Release me.”

Even tied down, he managed to avoid the slap. “You defied Commander Manston’s orders,” the doctor said, his face red with anger. “I am keeping you still and docile until the Captain chooses to deal with you.”

“Then you should have stun-cuffed my legs.” The kick bowled the doctor over like a rubber ball, but because he couldn’t move his arms or upper body it had little power behind it. He had braced himself by the time the doctor rose and activated the stun cuffs. The pain of electricity coursed through his body and he could smell his own hair singing; this was worse than a thousand lashes, this was the definition of pain. But he didn’t scream. He refused to scream.

“Enough!” The command rang out, cutting through Danteel’s near-unconsciousness. The pain stopped abruptly and the Nagai groaned. He could see Moncreif standing in the door to the medbay with a face like thunder. Danteel rarely saw him this angry; the Captain’s rage was cool and sharp and terrible, the kind where he could smile and make small talk while he whipped your back into ribbons.

The doctor scuttled over to him. “Sir,” he began, “I—“

“Were you or were you not,” Moncreif said in the low, piercing voice of his most potent anger, “made aware of the rule that no one punishes my slaves but me?”

Danteel knew the rule. He had counted on it.

But the doctor seemed taken aback. “Of course, sir, but I thought—“

“Then you will kindly refrain from thinking any farther,” Moncreif interrupted again. “You will go to your quarters and log an official request to transfer off of the Avarice. If you are not off this ship in ten hours, I will let Danteel decide how to deal with you.”

The doctor looked fearfully back at his “patient.” Danteel gave him the most menacing smile he could manage, half-fried. The doctor fled. Now the room was empty but for the captain, the girl, and himself. Moncreif went first to the girl and looked down at her dispassionately. “Commander Manston tells me she is a gift,” he said to the room in general, “to do with…as I please.”

“Sir,” the word came out roughly, and not just because the pain still echoed in him. “Sir, please, you can’t—“

“I can’t?” Moncreif’s harsh, motley green eyes pierced Danteel like a rapier. But his mouth was smiling. “Do tell me, Danteel, what I cannot do.”

Danteel swallowed. “Sir, please,” he tried again, hating the words as he said them. But now was no time for pride; he hadn’t been able to save Mattira, maybe he could save this child. “I, I beg of you, please leave the girl alone. I have nothing to offer you that you haven’t already beat out of me, but I swear—“ he cut off and swallowed again. “I swear, if you let her go I’ll give you no more trouble. Ever.”

Moncreif smiled. “So noble of you,” he said thoughtfully. “Why would you give up on our little game for this?” He gestured at the unconscious form of the Sk’iri.

The Nagai closed his eyes. Because I know how you treat your slaves, he thought. Because I’ll do anything I can to stop you doing to her what you did to Mattira, to Ellir, to all of them. Because I don’t want her back to look like mine. Aloud he said, “Because she has no one else to speak for her.”

The Captain smiled again and gently brushed a lock of the girl’s hair off her forehead. Danteel again tried not to throw up. “She is a very pretty thing, and I don’t have a Sk’iri,” said Moncreif off-handedly. “We shall see.”

I have just taken the last hour and a half to read through the entirety of In Thrall. In Thrall to writing can be compared with everest to mountains. It was absolutely fantastic.

I was hooked after the first part. Danteel is an interesting character, he is different and has the presence of the Nagai culture all about him which adds intrigue to how he views the Avarice and humans in general. However, Moncreif has to be my favourite character, I loved it how he became the protagonist for a while when they sort of teamed up against Jonahn.

Still this isn't any ordinary conflict. This is gyr conflict wear you add yet another element of intrigue with the Weavers. this was a master stroke - combining elements of fantasy with what is a typically science fiction story.

I was kind of annoyed that Mattira was discarded from the plot but then I realised that the story is about Danteel and Moncreif and I'm guessing there will be sections to the story. Its kind of Stephen Kingesk of how you do this. So the annoyance soon vanished because I was hooked on another episodic plot line.

It felt like I'd just picked a novel up from a book store. It really did. It had a very publishable, polished feel to it. I enjoyed the characters, the plot was original and the pacing was just right.

Good luck and I can't wait to see what the evil Captain Moncrief does to our new guest aboard the Avarice. This hasn't been much of a critique but more of a review from a very happy reader.

Oh, I like this new race you've introduced. Sk'iri. Nice, I like wings.

FIRST BIT

gyr wrote:After she had her child, Jonahn gave both mother and baby (a little girl) to Alita as a short of graduation present, celebrating the young Song Weaver’s end to her studies with him.

Short = sort?

gyr wrote:From all accounts, Alita used the money she earned from the use of her talents to buy a very nice house for herself, Mattira, and the child.

Is this comma necessary?


SECOND BIT

gyr wrote:He had seen his share of battlefields, had worn his share of blood, but this was a massacre, preformed by a man who would not even deign to leave orbit and look upon the faces of those he had been ordered to slay.

Do you mean, ordered to be slain? Whose idea was it to kill all the Sk'iri? If it was Moncreif's then I'd change this.

gyr wrote:The carnage around him seemed to laugh at this thought, and he heard his master’s voice in his hear: Run to where?

Hear = ear?

gyr wrote:They walked in a kind of wedge, Danteel at point with two blank-faced soldiers on either side of him and the officer tucked safely in the middle.

Is it a wedge or not? It is a wedge, so nix the kind of, as it's superfluous.

gyr wrote:Beneath it lay a young Sk’iri girl, probably not much older than fifteen, clutching at the corpse of a woman who had apparently been her mother.

Nitpicky here. ... at the corpse of a woman who must have been her mother sounds better, I think. Or something like that.

gyr wrote:The doctor’d used bloody stun cuffs.

Had is better.


I don't think there was anything else. As I said afore, I like this new race, and I'm real interested about this girl.

Phorcys, do you want my head to pop with all the swelling you've given it? Honestly, it's fantastic to hear from people who love my stuff so much--it's people like you who keep me writing! *hugs*

ShadowTwit, what would I do without you and your eagle-eyes for typos? I shall certainly go back and integrate your wonderful tips when I'm not rushing madly to work.

Thank you, both of you. *sets out pie*

As I've been away from this for a while, I'll take it from where I left off - Page 4's second post. Sorry again and so forth for taking so long with this, Gyr. These last few chapters were the best so far, I think. You're really painting Danteel as a full character, and it's a pleasure to watch his persona grow and expand on the page. He is one of the most inherently likeable protagonist-victims that I've found in sci-fi, because even though he suffers quite cruelly, his reaction to it is neither overtly arrogant nor cowardly, and I think the balance really does the story credit.



Some Small Nitpicking

When Danteel awoke, his highly accurate internal clock told him that it was nearly midday.

Is all of this really needed? Sounds like something out of "'Repent, Harlequin,' said the Tick-Tock Man". You might want to consider chopping it down to merely 'When Danteel awoke, he knew immediately that it was...' and so on.

The quarters were quiet. Not a sound from Moncreif’s master suite, nor [...] the tiny cell next to Danteel which Mattira occupied. Mattira.

Insert 'from', otherwise you're missing a word.

She was wearing her outfit of the night before, the fabric now creased and crumpled.

'from'.

“My master or yours?” asked Alita, only half-sarcastically.

You'll need a hyphen there.

Danteel darted out of Mattira’s cell fast as thought, Alita following him.

The comparison here feels awkward to me. You might rewrite it as 'out of Mattira's cell as quick as thinking...'?

Surprisingly, his disgust seemed not to be directed at Danteel, but the Nagai, never one to argue when handed good fortune, declined to ask at whom the disgust was aimed.

A bit of a run-on sentence here, and the phrasing is awkward. It tripped me up - at first I thought you were saying that Moncrief was not disgusted with Danteel, but at the Nagai race in general. You might want to rewrite this to even it out and break up the line a bit better, it's too rambling as it is: Surprisingly, his digust did not seem to be directed at Danteel, but the slave was never one to argue when handed good fortune; he declined to ask at whom the disgust was aimed.



Characters

Danteel stands above the rest here, of course, holding his own. I found that the character that sagged in this chapter was Moncrief, not because you were inconsistent with his persona, but because you didn't allow the reader to spend enough time with him. In his position, at this point, this is a perfect time for character development. Here, we are exposed not to the cruel, callous and controlling Moncreif of previous chapters, but to the Moncrief who has lost something. Jealously sets in, a feeling of loss, and we don't get to see very much of it because we are whisked through the scene so quickly.

I would advise dragging out a part of this chapter... drag out his dressing scene, perhaps, where Danteel's helping him wash up and look presentable for the day. There are a lot of unspoken tensions available that you might get across with such an extension - less telling and more showing.


And with that, I've got to run - I'll be back to crit the rest, Crazy Bird. ^_^

You're fantastic, darling, as are your suggestions. While I like it that people enjoy In Thrall, it's kinda annoying when no one actaully takes the time to find out what's wrong. Thank you!

gyrfalcon wrote:A million thanks, my Imp! *gives whole box of cookies* I've always been a little unsatisfied with this scene and I think you targeted the problem that I couldn't see. I shall edit this as soon as I can snatch time, and post the next bit (with which I am much more pleased) shortly.

Edit: I've integrated both your suggestions, and Imp you were so right about making J. flip about his actions to Mattira--perfect. I also agree with you on the idea of interuptions, but I'm having trouble finding the right spot, any ideas?

Lo again Gyr. ^_^

...a response to this, though I haven't quite the time to glance over the next installment.

I think J.'s reply, more flat and certain - if bored - certainly flows more eveniy in light of previously presented character impressions. ^_^

As for the breaking in/interruptions - I rather doubt that Danteel would be able to make it through an entire malediction in his own tongue without being cut off by J., yes? Try letting J. interrupt him there.







IMP

But J. does! Do you mean he should earlier? Wait a minute, does he? *checks*

Edit: *gasp!* He doesn't!!! For some reason, I always imagined he did--THANK YOU IMP!!!!!!